


Taken for Granted

by Fluffifullness



Category: Free!
Genre: Free! Kink Meme, Hand Jobs, M/M, Omorashi, Watersports, Wetting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-21
Updated: 2013-10-21
Packaged: 2017-12-30 03:17:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1013452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fluffifullness/pseuds/Fluffifullness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Friends with benefits. Only now does it strike Makoto as funny that he doesn’t quite see it that way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taken for Granted

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to [this prompt](http://iwatobiswimclub.dreamwidth.org/1985.html?thread=2040513#cmt2040513) on the _Free!_ kink meme.

The two of them together have made a habit of sleeping over at each other’s houses for as long as anyone – Makoto’s parents, Makoto, probably even Haru and most likely a handful of other mutual, long-time classmates – can remember. Of course that’s because they’re close friends, sure it is, but Makoto knows just a little better than that, anyway.

He and Haru are the kind of friends who don’t worry about closed doors or privacy. They’ve grown up changing in and out of pools, so maybe that’s part of it, but Makoto, at least, wouldn’t be quite as okay with anyone _else_ walking in on him half-naked and shivering in the cold of early winter. They’re the kind of friends who can trust each other with secrets, but they’re also the kind of friends who can comprehend silence. When words are necessary, Haru tries to have them. Makoto always has them, but it’s his silences that give his worries away – and, of course, Haru never fails to notice.

When they were little, they were there to stick up for each other in a way that most other kids weren’t. Haru was never great at communicating, but Makoto never minded acting as a sort of translator – even now, when Haru makes it necessary. And Makoto’s always been afraid enough of everything – right down to the fear itself, sometimes – that Haru’s had to be there to help him along from time to time.

They’re the kind of friends who don’t feel the need to worry about boundaries, so maybe that’s why things like this are relatively normal between them.

N-not that Makoto’s completely sure that he supports _this_ kind of ‘things like this.’

“Wait.”

Haru catches Makoto by the wrist just as he’s stirring drowsily to his feet. His eyes are all but invisible to Makoto in the near-total darkness of a moonless night, but he can guess what his friend is thinking even without the visual cue.

“Not tonight,” he whispers – pointlessly; tonight is one of the rare ones spent together at Haru’s, which means no parents or little siblings to overhear them and their so-called ‘things.’ (It’s the only way either of them ever refers to it, when and ifthey refer to it at all.) He probably should have anticipated this, actually, but he’s been so tired lately that he’d hoped –

“Yes, tonight,” Haru insists, voice as unnecessarily low as Makoto’s. “You owe me from before.”

“Y-you don’t mean the thing with Nagisa and Rei, do you?” When Haru doesn’t respond, Makoto sighs defeatedly. Almost a week ago, now, he somehow managed to convince Haru to let Rei and Nagisa have the pool to themselves for a day. It had been at Nagisa’s request, and while the blonde had said very little about his actual intentions, Makoto knew implicitly. He and Rei had been acting strange for weeks leading up to that day, after all, and even Nagisa had come off as a little jittery just before the other two had gone.

Things seem to have cleared up between them since then, so it would seem that everything was resolved happily in the end. Makoto would congratulate the two of them if he were only sure that they _mean_ to be as obvious as they are.

“How bad is it?” he hears now. There’s an unmistakable note of eagerness there in Haru’s voice. They have school tomorrow; Makoto’s already predicting a late start.

“Not bad at all, yet. I’m honestly a bit surprised that it even managed to wake me up.” He laughs and then holds his breath, hoping that Haru will accept the minor disappointment and give up for the time being.

No such luck. “We’ll wait, then.”

“Haru…”

“Makoto.”

And that’s really all he has to say. Coming from Haru, it’s the strongest possible retort; it means stubborn resistance, end of discussion. When he’s completely sure that he wants something, it’s next to impossible to change his mind.

It’s sort of Makoto’s fault, though, because he’s just a little too soft to refuse most earnest requests.

He shifts uncomfortably on the futon – pushed close to Haru’s, a situation maybe seventy percent the direct result of Makoto’s own fear of the dark. It’s not as bad as it used to be – _when we were kids,_ he muses again – but extra-shadowy nights like this still get to him, and it doesn’t help that Haru had to insist on a horror movie just a few short hours before their usual bed time.

The kiss he received at the end of it only _mostly_ makes up for the damage done, and the gesture itself was another of those ‘things like that’ – because why _shouldn’t_ they exchange that brief, intimate contact every now and then, when they both feel like it and can consent without words to actions that have always gone unquestioned, undiscussed?

They used to do this stuff entirely on a whim. It’s all a little more planned, now, but every single touch, kiss, night – all of it – is still treated as an isolated occurrence, a non-event that comes mostly as a natural benefit of the trust they’ve built in 17 years.

Friends with benefits. Only now does it strike Makoto as funny that he doesn’t quite see it that way.

“You’re worrying about something,” Haru mutters.

“Just a little,” Makoto responds, shifting awkwardly once more. He tries to stay still for more than a few minutes, but the growing pressure in his bladder finally prompts him to roll over again – probably just seconds later – so that now he’s facing Haru just inches away. “You sure you want to do this right now? We have to get to class on time tomorrow, and –”

“That’s not it,” Haru interrupts, sounding vaguely frustrated. “What’s really bothering you?”

Makoto stutters to a halt and squirms, muscles tensing and relaxing, on top of his blankets. It’s not like Haru to be so verbose, at least not in the middle of the night and definitely not when they’re both awake for something as socially unacceptable as –

“Makoto.”

“S-sorry, Haru. Just… thinking.”

He hears his friend moving before he feels the cool back of his hand on his cheek. He takes a moment to marvel at Haru’s ability to make anything at all out in this gloom, but then he’s sure that it’s probably just the difference between perfect vision and _his._

“If you really don’t want to, just say so.”

Makoto blushes – and instantly regrets it. There’s no way Haru can’t feel the heat beneath his hand, and who knows? Maybe his vision is good enough even here that he can see the embarrassed tears standing at the corners of Makoto’s eyes, the darkening of his face to lobster red and the way he glances down to avoid looking in his friend’s general direction.

“I don’t _really_ mind,” he strains. “I – I’d hate to disappoint you…”

“I won’t be,” Haru promises. His voice comes mostly in monotones, but to Makoto it sounds a little regretful. “You should learn to stick up for yourself.”

“It’s okay,” Makoto insists with a little smile. “I owe you, right?”

Haru goes quiet for a long moment, but he doesn’t lie back down. Makoto’s just giving up on ever receiving an answer when the other boy finally hums his agreement.

“Don’t cry.”

Makoto’s chest tightens at that. His throat feels full, but it’s not the lump that hurts and makes talking impossible when you’re about to cry. Some of it might be the insistent pressure that his bladder’s starting to exert on the rest of his body, but at least half of it’s just plain happiness.

“Okay,” he breathes, and has to curl in on himself as a sudden tremor travels up from his lower body to shake the rest of him. He has to clench most of his muscles just to maintain his control, but even through a haze of anxious desperation, he hopes that Haru won’t misinterpret the movement as anything like sadness.

There’s a short, barely-audible exhalation – probably a laugh done Haru-style – and then the blankets beside Makoto shift and rustle as his friend lowers himself back onto the futon.

“That was fast,” he comments. Makoto can almost _hear_ the sly smile.

“Maybe this isn’t such a good –”

“You agreed already,” Haru returns. “No take-backs.”

Makoto tries to sigh, but he’s trembling so much that the exhalation comes out sounding altogether too breathy, shuddery. He’s still blushing, and actually the heat in his cheeks has already spread to the rest of his face, the back of his neck, even his chest. He’s just counting the shirt that’s hiding that among his blessings when a cool hand slips beneath the hem and begins to roam the heated skin of his abdomen.

“H-Haru?!”

Haru shushes him gently and continues his exploration of Makoto’s stomach, his chest. Makoto can hear his friend’s breathing quicken even as his does, and that scares him almost as much as it makes him sort of happy. They’ve never gone this far, after all, but it’s intimate and mutually nice and that’s good.

He’d appreciate it a lot more if he weren’t trying hard not to wet his pants – and, more than likely, both their beds, as well.

“It tickles,” he squeaks. “Haru, _please,_ at least let me –”

He gasps and shivers and, for just a moment, loses control. It’s not a flood, but it’s a leak and it’s enough to leave him panting and reaching down to hold himself with both hands. His arms brush Haru’s own hand, actually knocking it away for a moment – though, of course, Haru’s quick to replace it.

“Did it soak through?”

“N-no,” Makoto stammers, relieved. His head is spinning, though, and his muscles are already tiring much faster than they should be; he’s still sleepy, after all, and it’s way too late at night for total wakefulness. Haru traces the taut line of his arms down, down, until he has to shimmy lower – low enough to be almost at eye level with Makoto’s crotch.

He studies it silently for a moment, his hands paused against his friend’s wrists. Makoto’s stomach does a flip in his throat at that, but he manages to bite back most of his pained whimper before it can claw its way out. He likes the way it feels, being touched by Haru. He likes the softness of his hands, the could-be-wet cold. He even likes the attention, but that’s also incredibly embarrassing.

“I said not to cry.”

Makoto sniffles and shakes his head defensively. “‘M okay,” he says quickly. He’s afraid that if he talks any more than that, he’ll let go again.

“Are not,” Haru murmurs. “But it doesn’t hurt, right?”

Makoto would fidget around again if he felt as though he could do even that much without seriously adding to the stain in his underwear. He feels paralyzed; he’s sure that if Haru decides to touch any other part of him right now, that’ll be it. He’ll lose it completely.

“Makoto?”

“A-ah,” Makoto chokes, then clears his throat and tries again. “No, I’m really fine, just” – he has to pause and swallow back a low moan – “just getting close. J-just gimme a sec to – to –”

“Mm,” Haru sighs, and maybe it’s because there’s a ton of blood roaring in his ears, but Makoto thinks he hears something like acquiescence in his friend’s tone. That’s why he doesn’t expect what he gets – the sudden press of a single finger against the tight swell of his bladder, the cold brush of skin and a wave of overpowering _need_.

He yelps as a second stream of urine escapes his crumbling defense. His hands are still clenched about his crotch, so he knows immediately when the previous stain spreads from his boxers to the front of his pajamas. It’s a miracle that he manages to catch himself before it can spread any more than that. He can sense Haru flushed and breathing hard somewhere above him, but his eyes are squeezed shut and he’s afraid to open them just yet.

“It’s okay,” Haru soothes. “You can let go. Don’t hurt yourself trying not to.”

Of course, this isn’t the first time they’ve done this – the holding-back desperation play, kind of… _watersports,_ if Makoto only had the heart to call it that – but it _is_ the first time Haru’s verbally prompted Makoto to give in. It’s strange, a change of pace, another new thing, and it’s enough to startle Makoto’s eyes open. His mouth moves in the shape of a question, but he completely fails at making any noise.

Haru, on the other hand, sighs and – and Makoto can just distinguish something of an outline, his arm, as it comes close and then closer to the swell of aching pressure-almost-pain. Desperate, he tries to twist away, but the sudden motion only serves to exacerbate what Haru’s doing.

 _His palm is a lot warmer than his fingers,_ Makoto thinks, and then he’s flooded with another kind of warmth entirely. He stiffens, at first, but the relief is so sweet that he finally does give up, relax his muscles as a steady hiss makes obvious what may or may not be immediately visible to Haru. (Makoto, for his part, closes his eyes again as the liquid starts to work its way through his fingers. He yanks one arm back, drapes it over his eyes with his fingers splayed, wet, beside him.)

It feels like it’ll never stop. Haru’s making small sounds in the back of his throat – not like gagging, more like holding himself back, enjoying only the look on Makoto’s face and the way he strains slightly upward in a final semblance of fight – and Makoto is faintly aware of a new kind of pressure replacing the former one where his hand is still cupping his –

“You okay?” Haru asks, and Makoto realizes in some faraway corner of his mind that he’s finally finished.

“I… not sure,” he admits, taking a tentative step toward stretching his aching muscles. It feels like he hasn’t moved properly in hours, and…

“Oh,” Haru realizes before Makoto can do anything to cover it up.

The heat that had been starting to drain from Makoto’s cheeks returns full-force. “I – I should go get cleaned up,” he stammers. “Sorry for the mess, it was a lot more than I thought and I warned you, but – well, I did say yes, anyway, so I guess it’s mostly my fault –”

“It’s fine,” Haru says. Makoto automatically assumes that he’s responding to the nervous rant, but a cursory glance up at the Haru-shadow says otherwise. Especially when the phrase is repeated. “It’s fine.”

The heat turns into something that’s still mortification but not quite the same; Makoto has to swallow heavily around a growing lump in his throat. His stomach is tying itself in knots, and the heat’s starting to travel downward all over again. He likes the way Haru touches him and he likes nights like that, too, but – “N-not like this, Haru. I’m – I’m a mess right now, so I should at least change my clothes and shower before –”

“That’d take too long,” Haru huffs. “Move your hand.”

When Makoto doesn’t – of _course_ he doesn’t, he’s all wet and warm and embarrassed, still – Haru moves it for him, and he’s gentle – gentle enough that just a touch of exertion on Makoto’s part would be more than enough to repulse the other’s efforts.

So Haru’s stating his own desires plainly and physically, but at the same time he’s giving his friend another opportunity to refuse. (Or maybe more like forcing him to. He complains about Makoto’s shy willingness to give in all the time, after all, calls him a martyr or settles simply for looks of vague irritation and frustration. It’s probably not that he hates Makoto for the way he is, and if it were up to him he might not really want his friend to change. He’s painfully kind that way, though, because he can’t always bring himself to ignore the things Makoto says – the almost-arguments with no action there to back them – in favor of his own wants.

He knows that a too-weak will to assert one’s own feelings is often the best way to get hurt.)

Small wonder that Makoto doesn’t take the chance, anyway, that he can’t or maybe that he doesn’t quite _want_ to. He’d almost like to remind Haru that he’s pretty easy to manipulate, too, but then that’s mostly only where pools and swimming are concerned. When it’s anyone but Makoto, Haru’s so blunt that he comes off as stubborn. No one argues with him all that much, so he doesn’t wind up yielding to people the way Makoto does.

But that’s fine, isn’t it, as long as Makoto’s okay with yielding?

He bites back a low whine as Haru’s hand leaves his by his side and then returns to palm Makoto through two layers of sodden fabric. He’s not even moving all that much – just touching him lightly, rolling up and down to tease soft noises from the larger boy – but the sound makes it seem like so much more. The heavy squelching, the close wet pressed and clinging to Makoto’s cock. Maybe it’s because the two of them are silent save for their uneven breathing, but to Makoto it all sounds like a pool lapping thickly at concrete.

“H-Haru, your hand…”

Haru hums a quiet acknowledgement that he’s heard Makoto, but the deliberate motion doesn’t stop. Just slows down, briefly, and that only for a moment as Haru – Makoto guesses – slips his other hand past the tightening bands of his own pants and underwear.

“What do you want me to do?” he murmurs, picking the lagging pace up and quickening it just enough that Makoto has to stifle a gasp.

“Like that,” he pants. “O-only – faster – please.”

He can’t help himself, asking as plainly as that despite every one of his earlier protests, and Haru obliges him without remark – starts up an even brisker pace and squeezes him lightly every few moments, little muscle-flexes timed so just-rightly that Makoto has to wonder if Haru’s reading his mind (he could be, because it kind of sort of does happen sometimes, in a way and just between them). Hot liquid – from before, of course, plus the new addition of the pre-cum that Makoto can feel leaking out in slow, occasional spurts – courses through his fingers, makes slithery dripping noises and repeatedly seems to have escaped, drained away, only to soak back into the cloth still separating skin from skin.

He loses track of himself, just a little, and before he knows it he’s thrusting up and into Haru’s hand – and that, at least, makes Haru pause mid-stroke, breath sharp and deep the way it tends to get after an especially long swim.

“M-Makoto, if you – can – can I –”

Makoto almost laughs. “Yeah. It’s okay, Haru-chan.”

They’re probably lucky that Makoto’s pants aren’t jeans or anything like that, because even without buttons and zippers and the like, pulling them away when all they want to do is stick and cling to his skin is difficult enough. Haru’s hands linger at Makoto’s waistline for an incredibly long time, tickling – and then it’s gone, the cover and the warmth-turning-cold and the air is even colder, practically frigid and it feels sososo _good –_

Haru doesn’t hesitate nearly as long as Makoto probably would have, but the intermittent hitches in his breath speak volumes more than he himself was ever likely to. He touches Makoto with a degree of confidence that should be alarming, presses his still-damp (and still slightly cold) thumb into the head of Makoto’s cock as his other fingers work up and down his length, massaging gasps and moans and muffled cries from – well, from both of them, mutual as it is and _fitting_ as it is when they both fall way over the edge together, limbs tangling collapsing into each other damp and hot and cold and –

– and it’s funny, ‘cause –

– ‘cause he’s covered in his own pee, he thinks, and on the heels of that – this is Haru, his best friend Haru. His best friend with whom he’s done one or two things like this before, but never so much so fast or so suddenly. His best friend who might be more than his best friend, if only Makoto had the courage to ask him about it.

But he does, actually, given time and a little thought and spur-of-the-moment inspiration – and that time, of course, is only the time it takes him to shed the rest of his pajamas, to replace the futons and step into the bath while Haru waits just on the other side of the door, spare change of clothes (dredged up from the little stash Makoto keeps here, his second home) in hand – and the answer, in hindsight, maybe should’ve been obvious all along.

“What? Isn’t it obvious that it’s already been that way for a long time?”

“You mean…?”

Haru looks plainly surprised. “I didn’t think I’d need to say it out loud.”

 _“Haru,”_ Makoto all but chokes. “Please.”

“Okay,” Haru agrees, now looking entirely nonplussed by Makoto’s excitability. He’s probably all too ready to go back to sleep for what few hours they have left, and it’s definitely going to be Makoto who wakes up first to get them both ready in the morning.

“Makoto,” Haru murmurs, and Makoto almost can’t stop blushing down at his feet long enough to look Haru in the eye.

“I really like you a lot.”

“Y-you – _thank you,”_ he gushes before he can quite stop himself. Realizing how silly he must sound, he tries to counter that clumsy response with something smoother. That’s probably not how it comes out, but Haru doesn’t seem to mind when he adds, “I mean – I feel the same way, Haru. I really – for years, maybe. S-so – let’s g-go out, then – okay?” and he searches Haru’s face for the sign of approval that he so desperately needs to see.

“Mm,” Haru agrees, totally collected. He doesn’t even have to think, and then he decides for both of them: “We’ll go swimming tomorrow. At that gym.”

 _Honestly –_ Makoto doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but that’s just like Haru, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Six days after the initial posting date of this fic, I went ahead and made some small changes to the ending. I'm hoping that it reads a bit better now.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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